Maps
by Wendy Pierce
Summary: Mikayla is using every map in existence to track down the runaway King. Will she find him before it's too late?


Peru?  
 _No, far too exotic._

Hawaii?  
 _No, it'll just remind him of the island._

Canada?  
 _Nope, he despises that state._

Australia?  
 _Okay, that is just way too far away for his liking._

With her untidy and knotted hair, eyes too red and tired for reading, Mikayla examines the several maps that lay out before her on the desk. Her hand is unsteady; she shakes the cup in her hand, spilling hot black liquid over one of the maps. Muttering curse words, she gently places the cup down and rushes to clean the mess. She moves too quickly that when she returns with napkins, the mug is on the floor, and the ground absorbs the liquid. Groaning, she ignores it, returning to her work at the desk.

She has stared at the pages for so long; she has memorized it like the back of her hand. If only remembering possible countries can help her in such a situation. But she can only work off the facts. And all she knows is that there is a runaway King, most likely never to be seen again.

She began going through the possibilities:

Is he in Chicago?  
 _If he and Boomer had once commandeered a balloon by themselves to attend their high school prom, then yes, he could be there._

Did he really leave the island or is he just hiding in the jungle?  
 _That's impossible. The guards have searched every spot on the island for him. If he is hiding, they would've already found the boy._

Did he make it to the States?  
 _There's really no sure way of knowing that now._

Did he crash in some horrible accident and because no one was there to save him, he died; his destination and last words never to be known to anyone? _Now that I think about it…_

The thoughts become unsettling to her. She doesn't want to think that way. Not ever. She takes her notepad and draws a line through the option 'DEAD', feeling cold on the inside despite the warm weather outside her window. She's suddenly overcome with emotion; she pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her feet as tears threaten to fall.

No, she shakes her head. She will _not_ think that way.

 _Brady is not dead._

He's not and he can't be.

Yet, why does she have a strong feeling that he is?

She's sobbing now, holding herself tightly and rocking back and forth to calm herself. She tries to compose herself, trying to rid herself of such negative thoughts and emotions. Once her tears dry, she decides to give her little research studies a break for a while. She forces herself to get up and march to the small bathroom.

What she sees scares her.

Displayed in the mirror, is the image of a girl. The once beautiful girl has turned into the image of something similar to a zombie. Underneath her eyes are dark circles, circles that are so dark that it looks as if she hasn't slept in ages. The veins in her eyes are a deep red that they almost hide the white in her eyes, or any color that is left. Her cheeks are sunken-they have lost their sharpness. Her mouth hangs lazily in between her nose and chin; it can fall off her face if she lets it. She smiles but it's not a possibility. She gives this half smirk, half-pout smile, but can't really seem to pull back her lips enough to reveal her yellowing teeth. Her mouth is so dry that as she attempts to speak, only croaking can be heard.

This isn't her.

Weeks of researching non-stop for a boy-king, who she will probably never see again, has driven her to the point of madness. And she blames the aforementioned boy for it. For coming. For flirting with her. For making her fall in love with him. For leaving. For everything.

Angrily, she takes the mirror in both hands and throws it against the floor, the shards of glass on the floor and the new cuts on her feet and hands satisfying her.

* * *

After cleaning herself up for the first time in a month, she lays on her bed, her gaze wondering absentmindedly to the ceiling as her work lay scattered and untouched on the desk. She will abandon the research for now, deciding her health is more important than some stupid teenage boy. _A boy who had loved her…and still does…_

She is wrapped in her bathrobe, her wet hair soaking her pillows. She can care less. She has treated herself-taking a shower, brushing her hair and teeth, and even getting something nutritious to eat- and now all she should think about is herself and her health.

But she can't help it.

Every waking moment, she's been spending her time wondering the whereabouts of the runaway King, creating possible events if she is to see him again, and then diminishing those thoughts once they turn too ugly.

The world is a big place. But she is bound to see him again, right?

* * *

 _"Hello?" She calls out into night. A silhouette lurks in the shadows and she is unsure of how to react. She reaches for the machete at her waist, but another hand beats her too it. Before she can cry out for help, a hand clasps over her mouth. She wants to defend herself from her attacker, but she can't. Because soon enough, her eyes meet with familiar hazel eyes._

" _Brady?"_

 _The runaway King stands before her, his appearance still similar to the image she remembers: Dark locks, hazel eyes, and a fairly_ _built body structure. Brady talks. He talks softly and quickly, as if he has little time to say the words he needs to. His lips are moving, Mikayla notes that, but no sound what so ever comes out of his mouth. She believes she hears him speak of his whereabouts and his current life, where ever that is, but she can't really tell. Only one sentence is clear, "I will see you again, my beautiful."_

 _The words repeat in her head, so sweet and gentle that it almost lulls her to sleep. Almost. She feels strong arms incase her in a hug, feels the warmth radiating from another body. Then the body and arms are gone, and she is stuck feeling cold again._

" _Good-bye," are the last words Brady says as he fades into the night, never to be seen or heard from again.  
_

* * *

It is a dream. What she thinks is a reality is really nothing but a dream. Yet, why was Brady in said dream? She looks at the alarm clock to discover that it is three in the morning. Groaning, she rolls over in bed with a pillow over her head, willing herself to stay asleep until the late hours of the day.

* * *

Taking another pin from the basket, she positions it lazily towards the map hanging on the opposite wall. She throws her arm back, than drags it forward, releasing the pin and allowing it to fly in mid-air.

The pin lands on Canada.

She laughs. _He doesn't like Canada._

She takes another pin and aims again, but her concentration is broken as King Boomer and his triplet brother, King Boz, pop their heads into the room. They ask if she'd like to join them for a game of Frisbee. She thinks for a moment, telling them that she'll meet them outside in a few minutes. The Kings nod and leave at once.

Mikayla goes to her messy desk and stares at a month's worth of work. Sheets of paper are gathered in a corner of the desk, and maps have marks all over their once glossy and clean frames. She collects all the items and happily throws them in the nearest trash can. Before leaving, she decides to look at the hung map one final time.

This marks the end of her research. No more worrying, no more wondering. Brady left months ago. It is no longer her problem.

Wherever the boy might be, may he be happy.


End file.
